


quick, and not quick at the same time

by noodlefrog



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale POV, Choosing the life you want, Good Omens: Lockdown, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Introspection, Loneliness, Other, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Thank you for the lockdown video guys I'm screamin, what is a sourdough starter but an elaborate metaphor for love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:55:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23953420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodlefrog/pseuds/noodlefrog
Summary: After getting off of the call with Crowley, Aziraphale ponders the lockdown, their relationship, and why he's cross with his sourdough starter like it's personally wronged him.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 60
Kudos: 166
Collections: Good Omens Lockdown fics





	quick, and not quick at the same time

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken verbatim from a text my mother sent me in response to being told I’d decided to get married to my long-term partner before our county went under lockdown.

The sourdough starter living atop the refrigerator in Aziraphale’s upstairs kitchenette was a judgmental little thing. Well, it wasn’t a _thing_ , really. He supposed it was several things. A colony of single-celled organisms. It literally contained multitudes, as it were. A group, a… a collective, and yet at the same time, he couldn’t seem to think of it in any way besides as a singular noun.

It was also _distinctly_ judgmental, the ungrateful little thing. Aziraphale had picked a warm spot for it to live in, out of direct sunlight but where it would have indirect heat from beneath from the machinery that powered the refrigerator. At least, that was how it was supposed to work according to the book he’d read on the topic, but he had no idea if his refrigerator produced heat. He had no idea if it even _ran_ at all. He distinctly remembered Crowley calling him to ask about it once, back in the 1990s, and had laughed so hard at his own joke that he’d been too breathless for Aziraphale to understand the punchline.

But Walt—yes, _alright._ Aziraphale had named it. It seemed the proper thing to do, since it was alive and under his care. Walt was warm, regardless, because Aziraphale expected it to be. Walt was well-fed daily, because Aziraphale baked daily. He didn’t even like discarding the, well, _the discard_ portion of the starter. More often than not, anything he could not use ended up discreetly miracled into a safe place in one of his neighbors’ flats.

The humans who were on the receiving end of these surreptitious gifts did not seem overly disturbed by the miraculous appearance of angelically-manifested yeasts in their kitchens—it was, after all, lockdown for the humans as well, and if a person did not already have a sourdough starter in the works it wasn’t terribly surprising to have one foist upon them. They rationalized the inexplicable presence of the starter by remembering the awful way all the days blended together, of the foggy nature of the human memory during periods of stress, and came away thinking the whole “making and then forgetting about a sourdough starter” thing didn’t even warrant mention on a list of odd things to happen in 2020.

The point was, Walt was well provided for, and its progeny was well provided for, and so long as it was in the care of an angel, it had more or less been granted contact immortality and would live as long as there were things like flour and water to be had on the planet that its angel had already had a hand in saving once. Yes, that was a terribly good point. If the war had gone on as intended, there would be no one left to bake any bread, and so no sourdough starters would be made and tended. Yeast was another thing that was saved when Armageddon had been averted, and Walt should be appreciative of that. Instead, the bubbling little ingrate was _judgmental_.

It sat atop its perch in the refrigerator, surveying the kitchenette with the smug sort of superiority only a leavening agent could sustain.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, pointing a finger at the starter. “You have abs—absolutely no room to talk. You’re a colony, aren’t you? It means you’re never alone.”

The starter, predictably, did not answer him. It was busy self-replicating in its jar, and also being unable to communicate or even perceive its surroundings in any meaningful capacity, because it was a yeast and that’s what yeasts _do_. The bastards.

Aziraphale was doing what angels did in times of emotional turmoil. Well, he was doing what one _particular_ Earth-bound angel tended to do. He couldn’t imagine Michael pouring Kahlúa into her cocoa and moping, but Aziraphale had always been the most adaptive of his coworkers—his _former_ coworkers.

Aziraphale was also just tipsy enough to argue with his sourdough starter. This was not wholly unexpected behavior on Aziraphale’s part. He _liked_ arguing when he was at this stage of intoxication, it was just… well, the company was normally able to argue back. It was not also wholly unexpected behavior in this time in history. If Aziraphale were to ask any of his neighbors (from a socially appropriate distance away, of course) if they had found themselves arguing with inanimate—er, non-sentient—objects, many of them would have told him yes. Some of his neighbors may have even confided in him that they felt like they were losing their grip on reality, because they had begun to ascribe ulterior motivations to their sourdough starters.

He hadn’t asked any of them, of course. It wasn’t that he was uninterested in conversation. It was just… well, it wasn’t the same. He took interaction where he could get it, if a person happened to be close by, but he didn’t break quarantine to seek it out. He was rather embarrassed to admit it, but he’d quite talked the ears off those young burglars before sending them off. Unfortunately, none of them had read enough Keats to have much of an opinion of him, but that was to be expected. Human lifespans were so short, and the world moved so fast these days. It was unsurprising that people found themselves unable to slow down and contemplate, to take time for themselves to learn and discover. It made it a bit tricky to relate to them, though, sometimes. There was a depth to conversation that one could only get from a being who’d been around since the beginning.

It was the strangest thing. Once, he and Crowley had gone decades between meetings— _centuries,_ even, before they had formalized the Arrangement—and now he was looking at the next few months of separation with something like despair. He supposed it made a certain amount of sense. He’d been used to loneliness, before. It had been his default state. When one is granted a reprieve from thousands of years of solitude—nearly six months of daily walks in the park, of late nights in the bookshop back room, lunches that lingered, and surprise visits in the mornings—and is abruptly made to be alone again, it feels a bit like being buried. Aziraphale had gotten used to his new life shockingly quickly, and when it was taken from him again, he found himself struggling with all the silence. He talked to Crowley every day on the phone, but it wasn’t the same. And now… now it looked like the wouldn’t even get to do that anymore.

“I know,” Aziraphale said, squinting at his sourdough starter as he took another sip of his cocoa. “The right thing to do would be to call him. It’s—its so obvious even a… even a jar knows it. Well. Not your _jar_. Your… you. All of your little… cells.”

The problem wasn’t that he found the idea of Crowley—what was it that he’d said? Ah, yes. It wasn’t that he disliked the notion of Crowley _slithering over to watch him eat cake_ unappealing. If he was honest with himself, which he rarely was, he would have to admit just how appealing that notion really was. Equally appealing were the ideas of Crowley walking over or driving the Bentley. They key point was that he would be here. With Aziraphale.

And that… that _was_ the problem. They’d been friends for so long. They knew each other at their worst, and at their best. Crowley could make tea for Aziraphale exactly the way he wanted, all from memory. Aziraphale could see a stranger on the street in some ridiculous new fashion and tell on instinct if he would be seeing Crowley wearing it within the next few months, and his predictions were more accurate than any meteorologist could dream of being when it came to predicting the rain.

It was… good. To be known like that. To have someone like that he could talk to and rely on. But it had been six millennia of repression and fear and doubt, of having to keep distance between them for safety’s sake, and that kind of conditioning was hard to forget in just a few months. He hadn’t heard from his former side since the End of Days had become their new beginning, and yet he expected every day to turn around and see them waiting for him outside the shop.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure why he imagined the Archangels maintaining proper social distancing in his anxiety daydreams. They wouldn’t, he knew. Those were rules for humans, and they had all shown themselves quite happy to disregard humanity in favor of petty retribution. It was just… well, it was the done thing, wasn’t it? Following the rules. That’s what they’d always told him, that’s what they’d instilled in him. It was hard to imagine them failing to follow their own example, despite the fact that he’d been shown proof that the rules they’d made Aziraphale adhere to had clearly been intended as one-way.

That was why, he supposed, he was in lockdown at all. Yes, he was setting a good example to the humans. Yes, he enjoyed the time to sit and read without interruption. More than anything, though, it was that living without rules was terrifying, and beautiful, and thrilling, but also _terrifying_ , and the first time he’d been shown a new rule to follow, he had fallen in line immediately.

It was pathetic, really. Not unexpected, but definitely worth the sense of judgement he was getting from his sourdough starter about it. After all, Walt knew well that Aziraphale was _capable_ of nurturing a growing thing if he chose. He had just… made the wrong choice. Out of fear, out of habits he wished he could break, but it was still the wrong choice. Just one more of many.

They’d had six months to do as they liked. Ultimate freedom. No sides telling them what to do. Aziraphale had been dizzy with it, with the potential for what that had meant. It would have been easy to go too fast, to gorge himself, to try to embrace everything he had ever wanted and had to deny himself… but like a starving man, he’d had to pace himself. Too much would make him sick. Too much would make him panic, shut down, say things he’d regret. He knew how he acted when he was pushed too far too quickly. The bandstand wasn’t something he’d forget anytime soon. Neither was their fight in St. James’ Park. He had to go slowly, he had to think about how to do it right. Crowley seemed to understand. He hadn’t pushed. He’d been patient. Aziraphale didn’t know if he _knew_ , but either way, he seemed willing to wait as long as Aziraphale needed.

And Aziraphale had waited too long. He’d gone too slowly. By the time he had been almost ready to tell Crowley how he felt, a pandemic had started up and they had gone from seeing each other every day to having to make do with phone calls. And now—and _now_ —he was potentially on his own until _July._

_Bugger._

“I apologize for my language, Walt,” Aziraphale said, then sighed. This was ridiculous. _He_ was ridiculous. Here he was, moping in his kitchenette, and instead of calling the one person he actually wanted to speak to, he was personifying his yeast. His… bacteria? Was yeast considered a kind of bacteria? Crowley would know.

It was fast, this thing he wanted—this thing he was pretty sure they _both_ wanted—but it was also, perhaps, inevitable. They’d been friends for so long, and they liked each other so well, it seemed impossible that they could do anything but come to love one another. As hard as he’d tried to ignore it, to deny it, to bury it so deeply inside himself it could never see daylight… it had never gone away. It had grown. They could remain at the pace they were going for all time, and they would be happy, but Aziraphale knew that love wouldn’t ever stop growing. One day, it would all spill out. He couldn’t hope to contain it. In many ways, he didn’t even want to.

As slowly as Aziraphale embraced change, he did, in fact, change. It was impossible to be on Earth as long as he’d been and remain _unchanged_. That was what this planet did. It changed, it fostered adaptation, and long before he’d been willing to admit as much, Aziraphale had let himself become a creature of Earth. Beholden to her laws, her rules. He’d become adaptable, as much as any angel could be. It was who he was, now. It was who he’d chosen to become.

Things might have already changed for them by now, if it hadn’t been for lockdown. And his cowardice.

It would be a terribly quick turnabout to call Crowley and confess, but at the same time, it wouldn’t be. Not quick at all, really. If anything, it was six months and six thousand years late. But if something was inevitable… did it really matter how fast or how slowly one got there? The destination would be the same, and if their actions during Armageddon had done anything at all, they’d given themselves the time to figure out a pace and reach that destination when they wanted to. Truthfully, Aziraphale had wanted to reach that destination for at least the last eighty years, but what was a few decades to immortal beings like them?

* * *

  
Later that night, after he’d had even more to drink, Aziraphale actually got up the courage to dial the number. The words were there, he could feel them in his chest waiting to spill out, and all he could do was hope Crowley was still awake to hear them.

He picked up on the third ring.

“Yes?” His voice was grumbling, but he sounded awake, at least.

“Hello, Crowley! It’s me…”

“Has something happened?”

“No, no. Not at all.”

“You called me nine hours ago, s’why I ask,” Crowley drawled. “Bored already? Need me to tempt some humans to break into your shop again?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Aziraphale cleared his throat, adjusted his waistcoat even though no one was around to see it. “I just… I wanted to ask…”

The words had been right there. It had been a struggle not to say them to the empty bookshop while the line had been ringing, but now that he had Crowley’s voice on the other end, he couldn’t say them. It was if they’d evaporated. He needed to say something, though.

Instead of confessing his immortal, undying affection, Aziraphale asked, “Is yeast a kind of bacteria?”

“How the Heaven should I know? You’re the one in a literal bookshop.”

“Well you… you knew about the dolphins,” he stammered. “I thought you might, I don’t know. Have an idea.”

Crowley gave a put-upon sigh and the line was silent for a moment. When he next spoke, his voice was nasal and flavored with notes of David Attenborough. “ _Yeasts are eukaryotic, single-celled microorganisms classified as members of the fungus kingdom._ ”

It was hard to parse all of those words at the moment, with his anxiety and the Kahlúa conspiring against him. He had enough wherewithal to be surprised by the end of the sentence, at least. “Fungus? Really?”

“Yup.”

“Like… like mushrooms?”

“And mold.”

“What’s… what is a euk—what was it? A eukaryotic organism. What is that?”

Crowley made a long, wordless sound as he, presumably, continued scrolling on his cellular telephone. “It, uhhhhhhh. It’s a bunch of stuff about their cells, I guess.”

“Fascinating.”

“Why d’you want to know? Thinking of taking up yeast gardening in your spare time?”

“It’s called a sourdough starter, and it’s how you bake that kind of bread.” Aziraphale cast an eye up at the ceiling, as if Walt could see him and give him moral support. “I’m feeding mine tomorrow, and that means I’ll need to bake another fresh loaf.”

“Really? Well, that’s nice for you.”

“I wondered if you might… I don’t know. Would you be interested in coming over tomorrow to try some?” He cringed to himself through the silence on the other end of the line, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was too blunt, too abrupt, with none of the finesse this kind of conversation deserved.

The noise that broke the silence was sharp and almost verbal. Then, “Yeah. Sure. Nine o’clock alright with you?”

Aziraphale swallowed. That was it, then. The hard part was done. The rest would fall into place, no matter how long it took. The slow creep of a glacier. Freefall. Any pace in between. It was inevitable, and they’d get there together.

“Nine sounds lovely, dear. I’ll see you then.”

After they said their goodbyes, Aziraphale went back upstairs to his flat to ask it nicely to manifest a bedroom. Just a precaution, really. One could never tell how fast these things would go. Besides, while Aziraphale had no need of a bedroom, Crowley liked his sleep. If he decided that he wanted to go ahead and take his nap, he could do it here. After all, it wasn’t like there was any reason for him to rush off and leave. There was a lockdown on.

**Author's Note:**

> When my state was preparing to go on lockdown, my partner of 8 years and I had a conversation about what would happen if one of us got sick and we weren’t legally married. We’d been together nearly a decade, but in the eyes of the government, our only real legally binding status was as two people with our names on the same lease. That Monday, we were one of the last couples to be granted a marriage license in our county before the courthouse closed. That Saturday, we put on our best slacks and button-downs and got married by a friend standing 6+ feet away from us. We “paid” her with a loaf of bread my wife baked.
> 
> To my darling wife, if you read this: thank you for not making another sourdough starter during quarantine. The last one was such a little brat, always dripping on the counter. We’re better off without that kind of attitude during our quarantine.


End file.
